Chapter Text
You didn't feel like cooking that morning.
You woke up after a nightmare at 5AM and couldn't go back to sleep, so you started the day early. It wasn't exactly hunger, but something tinged inside your stomach enough that you noticed it and opened the fridge just to find a few ingredients. There were no leftovers or a half eaten plate. Your eyes scanned the empty shelves as you internally coursed the bunch of lazy clowns you called your teammates.
The one in charge of shopping for groceries and cooking was John. It was never discussed, yet the team didn't need to do so in order to accept his meals were the most decent ones. But he's been busy with some co-parenting stuff you didn't want to ask much about.
Your gaze landed on the peanut butter jar. This specific brand had a bittersweet taste to it you couldn't get enough of. Not a five course meal, but it's got protein— Or so you've been told.
The fridge door closed with a swift push of your hip. As soon as you looked at the sink, a huff escaped your nostrils. No one did the dishes either.
You started to think coexisting with gorillas might be easier and cleaner— knowing Alexei wouldn't notice the difference between toothpaste and dishwasher soap. "It's the same!" He'd exclaim. Not the hell it isn't.
Among the dishes that weren't dirty you found a butter knife sitting there between a potato peeler and a large wooden spoon. You grabbed it, rolled open the jar lid and got some peanut butter on the tip of the knife. Then licked it off.
The next five minutes you kept pacing around eating peanut butter off the jar. The speaker played some classics you inevitably started to dance to and sing. No one would show up at the kitchen that early in the morning anyway.
But then you heard lazy footsteps approaching the place. John stopped at the doorway looking like he haven't had any sleep at all. He had a confused and cranky scowl on his weary face.
"What the hell are you doing?" He said, gruffly— with a husky voice.
You stood there, a bit out of place.
"…Having breakfast?" You said, unsure if licking peanut butter off a knife even counted as breakfast.
"That's not breakfast." He answered sternly.
John walked past you deeper into the kitchen. Just as you expected, he reacted the same as you did upon the mountain of dirty dishes, if not more aggressively and annoyed. He groaned.
"Is it too damn much asking any of you to wash your dishes after you eat?" He said.
Just as you opened your mouth to retort, you backed down. Maybe he had a point. And even if he didn't, you wouldn't want to tease him while he was clearly in a bad mood.
"Well, Alexei cooked last night. Or at least tried to." You said, and licked some remnants of peanut butter that lingered on the knife as you leaned back against the counter. "And you know how he is, using every tool at sight and reach."
John had turned his head to look at you. His expression somewhat softened, and you could've sworn his eyes darted towards your lips still brushing against the knife. He smirked.
"Yeah, I know. Not everybody knows their way around the kitchen like me, huh?" His voice lowered by the end of the sentence.
A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips.
"Don't flatter yourself too much." You answered.
Then you dipped the knife to the jar one more time.
John snapped his tongue at the sight of you licking peanut butter off a butter knife. He turned his body to the front and crossed his arms while he also leaned back against the counter.
"You'd rather eat that as breakfast than wash some dishes and cook something?" He lacked judgment, it was rather amusement what coated his voice.
"I didn't feel like cooking. And I certainly don't feel like washing dishes." You admitted. "Besides, this is a sustainable, perfectly valid choice of breakfast."
"And you didn't think of using a spoon." He said. And he looked like he wanted to laugh.
"They're all dirty. And the knife is better."
Almost to prove your point, you scooped some more peanut butter and lifted the knife up to his face. Your gaze lingered on his as you smiled mischievously.
"Go on, try it. It's way easier to lick it off—"
Your words were cut when John, all of a sudden, grabbed the knife with one hand— His fingers brushing your own. Then, he stuck out his tongue to lick the knife so slowly, and all the while he stared at you with those hooded, filthy blue eyes. Damn.
"It's not bad." He mumbled— His lips were parted with the tip of the knife skimming over them.